


dying has never frightened me

by shoutz



Series: snow, as she falls [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Castlevania AU, Eventual M/M/F, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Tension, eventual sandwich, hunter Estinien, it is in my nature to sandwich, leave me to my shame, let me live, loosely, sexy fighting, this is so weird i don't know how to tag it, this is very self-indulgent, vampire Aymeric, you know this. i know this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoutz/pseuds/shoutz
Summary: A vampire, a hunter, and a scholar.The man sighs, shoulders dropping with the movement. “Oh, must we always be straight to business? I haven't even had the chance to offer tea—”“You couldofferme some answers.” Estinien isn’t here to talk. Or have tea. He’s here to investigate and root out monsters so the denizens of Tailfeather can sleep a little easier tonight.“Ah. Yes.” The man straightens, uncrosses his arms. His eyes lose some of the spark in them but they’re no less bright, no less intimidating. “If this is the route you wish to tread then far be it from me to stop you. However, I should be asking the questions here, considering you have intruded upon my residence. And quite rudely, might I add. You could have at least knocked.”Estinien scowls, scrambling for an excuse. “Hunting.”The man walks forward, a movement that looks more like a predator stalking its prey. A monster closing in on its prize. He smirks, showing teeth, and Estinien’s eyes narrow at the sight of two canines which extend much lower than they should.“Hunting what, pray tell?”
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: snow, as she falls [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572478
Comments: 72
Kudos: 98





	1. witchbottle

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers? Very very loose Castlevania AU that's been bouncing around my noggin for a million years. We'll see how often this updates and how spicy it gets

There is a stranger in Tailfeather’s tavern tonight.

True, Estinien may also be somewhat of a stranger to these people, but the barkeep knows him, and most of the patrons at least knows his deeds and his reputation. Estinien is no stranger to mercenary work, search and rescue missions, saving innocents from the grips of creatures that would sooner tear out their throats. In the days and months and decades since Thordan’s rule, the vulnerable people of Coerthas and Dravania have much to fear and few to protect them.

Estinien is one of those few. Though it tends to be quite a thankless job, and his usually ill temper makes people distrust him more often than not, it is his job and he performs it with pride. Shoving himself into danger for the sake of others is a way of life, _his_ way of life, though those he saves don’t know him. Won’t know him.

However _this_ man is a stranger, in every sense, particularly in the sense that sets the rest of the tavern on edge. Estinien can see as much in the barkeep’s eyes, shoulders tense with one hand lurking beneath the bar, ready for action. The patrons talk softer, keenly aware, looking pointedly away from the stranger.

The man says nothing after his request for a drink, content to sit in silence as he nurses his ale. Estinien keeps keen eyes locked on his figure from his table in a dark corner. The patrons flanking the man’s left and right at the bar decide to get up and move elsewhere, leaving him alone, though it doesn’t seem to bother him.

He’s dressed well, too well for someone seeking ale in Tailfeather of all places. A dark blue cloak covers his clothes but Estinien can see bits of armor and adornments making angular shapes against the cloth. It almost surprises him how ostentatious this man is, walking into the only tavern for miles out in the middle of the Dravanian Forelands in garb like _that._

He doesn’t stay long. The man polishes off the last of his drink, and the barkeep jolts when he sets the tankard back onto the table with a _clunk_. He sets something else onto the bartop, a small sack perhaps the size of his palm that jingles with the tell-tale sounds of gil, and leaves the tavern without a word.

 _One. Two. Three._ Estinien counts his slow way up to ten, before getting up from his table and following the man out of the tavern.

Estinien doesn’t catch sight of him, which is odd. He had waited but not _that_ long. The relentless falling snow and dark of night obscures any view he might have of the mysterious man, however the footprints he left behind are fresh enough by which he might follow. Careful, silent tracking takes him north of Tailfeather, through the Chocobo Forest, past ruins and the foliage that has claimed them. Almost half an hour passes before the tracks disappear completely, just outside of a cave that burrows deeper into the mountain.

Estinien sighs, a breath that clouds the air amidst the snow. “They don’t pay me enough for this.”

Without further ado, he ventures forward into the cave, one hand resting on the grip of his lance. Roots from trees older than the Twelve hang down into the tunnel, penetrating the stone from above and wrapping around more bits of broken architecture. The tunnel eventually opens into a large cavern, one which conceals a large door imbedded in old ruined stone. More roots creep across the doorway, almost covering the door, but not quite. Estinien approaches it with due caution, climbing the steps slowly before examining the entrance before him.

“Please be locked, please be locked, please be locked,” he murmurs as he pushes against the heavy stone. To his dismay, the doors slide slowly open, revealing a hallway that leads deeper into the mountain.

“Shit.”

Against his better judgment, he delves deeper still. Sconces line the hall every few yalms to give some light — recently lit, which means he’s found both the mysterious man and his residence, at least for the time being.

He meanders the sprawling halls, searching for any other doors or passages, but there’s _nothing._ He almost gives up and turns back from whence he came, before—

“I do not commonly receive _guests_ here, and certainly not at an hour as late as this.” Estinien jumps and spins at the low voice, one hand on the grip of his lance. He finds himself disturbed that he didn’t hear the man coming, that he was caught unawares in the den of his enemy. “And the guests who use that entrance usually don’t have the purest of intentions.”

The man is no longer hooded, and this lighting makes it far easier to see the details of him. The cloak’s hood bunches around his shoulders, revealing dark, wavy hair framed around a fair and delicate face. His eyes are blue and they _pierce_ in a way that has Estinien even more on edge than he was before he knew he was being followed. Through the opening of the cloak he can see he had been right about the garment; bits of silver snake around his torso, framing his blue armor with delicate metalwork.

He stares at Estinien expectantly. Any weapons that might be on his person are concealed by the cloak. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, hip cocked out to one side.

Estinien already hates him.

“Who are you? What is this place?” he asks, ignoring the accusation in the man’s tone.

The man sighs, shoulders dropping with the movement. “Oh, must we always be straight to business? I haven't even had the chance to offer tea—”

“You could _offer_ me some answers.” Estinien isn’t here to talk. Or have _tea_. He’s here to investigate and root out monsters so the denizens of Tailfeather can sleep a little easier tonight. 

“Ah. Yes.” The man straightens, uncrosses his arms. His eyes lose some of the spark in them but they’re no less bright, no less intimidating. “If this is the route you wish to tread then far be it from me to stop you. However, I should be asking the questions here, considering you have intruded upon _my_ residence. And quite rudely, might I add. You could have at least knocked.”

"I was..." Estinien scowls, scrambling for an excuse. “Hunting.”

The man walks forward, a movement that looks more like a predator stalking its prey than a man approaching a visitor. A monster closing in on its prize. He smirks, showing teeth, and Estinien’s eyes narrow at the sight of two canines which extend much lower than they should. “Hunting what, pray tell?”

 _Shit._ Estinien’s breath catches in his lungs, the air heavy with tension around him. “Treasure,” he blurts, “Word has it that something lies hidden in the forest. Seems I've found the _something_ , though I didn’t think it’d be a…a fucking _lair_.” It's a lie and the man can probably see straight through it, but he doesn’t pry.

“I see,” he says, taking a step forward, uncomfortably close, but Estinien stands his ground. The stench of copper fills his nose at the proximity, undercut by some cleaner smell that lurks beneath. “So your _treasure hunting_ led you to… break into my home? And I assume those weapons are merely decorative?”

“In case I run into any _monsters_ in my travels,” Estinien retorts, hissing the word. “And it seems I’ve found one.”

The man’s expression hardens. “You would kill me before even knowing my name? Has humanity truly lost all concept of decency?”

“You have yet to offer a name, _vampire.”_

He blinks, flinching at the word, and his face shifts to something Estinien can’t quite read. Shadows draw heavy lines over the man’s face, and he can’t meet Estinien’s eyes.

“I am Aymeric de Borel.”

Estinien is caught off guard, straightening at the realization. “Thordan’s son.”

“I like to think of myself as more than simply my father’s son,” Aymeric responds, and the underlying venom stings Estinien in a way he does not expect. “But if you’re truly asking, then yes. He is my father. Will you ask about my mother next? She was an Elezen woman. Kind. Gentle. She wouldn’t stand for my father’s actions and neither do I.” Estinien winces. The grip on his lance loosens, guilt throwing him wildly off-balance.

Thordan has held most of Coerthas and Dravania in a vice grip for decades now, an authoritarian rule that has done much and more to keep its population cowed. Several factions have risen against him in a futile attempt to overthrow his tyranny, and all have fallen to his monstrous armies, hell-bent on staying in power as long as he can. While Estinien fights for the people, for the innocent caught in the middle, never has he dared to openly oppose him.

He, contrary to popular belief, does not have a deathwish. Not entirely.

The assumption he made had been undeniable, though, and Estinien burns with shame. Aymeric is a vampire, a monster, and any other creature in his position would be out for blood and taking advantage of such a lofty position. That he seems to be against his father, and _staunchly_ so, takes Estinien several moments to internalize.

“And neither do you,” Aymeric adds, quiet though his voice bounces off the stone surrounding them. Thoughtful, he considers the human. “You may yet prove useful.”

The question takes Estinien by surprise. “In…doing what?”

A smile quirks the corner of Aymeric’s lips, the glint returning to his bright, burning blue eyes.

“Killing my father.”


	2. necropolis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend you watch the last half of Netflix Castlevania season 1 episode 4 for full effect. If you can't make your own sexual fighting tension then store bought is fine

“You’re mad,” Estinien says, dumbfounded. “You’re fucking _deranged.”_

“Am I?” Aymeric says. “For wanting to save these people and end my father’s tyranny you would call me deranged?”

“He has a vice grip on this nation that has held these people hostage for generations! You speak of killing him and his stranglehold on Ishgard like it’s as simple as swatting a fly.” Such a feat is unthinkable even for a man with Estinien’s skill set. Even with an _actual vampire_ at his side, it would be a far off dream to somehow even harm Thordan, much less kill him.

“Oh, it will not be easy.” He says _will_ as if Estinien has already agreed to such a rash plan — a plan that starts and stops at — fucking _killing Thordan._

“Nor possible.”

“Do you care?”

The question takes Estinien by surprise.

“About it being possible, or about doing it at all?”

Aymeric shrugs, but the look on his face says he knows he has asked the right question — brimming with self-satisfaction, a smug assurance that his prey has walked into the trap he had so painstakingly laid. This realization creeps up on Estinien slowly, and he finds he’s not quite sure how to feel about _being_ the prey. “That’s the crux, is it not? One answer heavily informs the other. Assume, then, that I ask you both. Do you care if it’s possible? Do you care about these people you claim to protect?”

He balks, fights against the urge to grumble the first answer that comes to his head: a vehement _no_ as he storms away from this place and the monster that dwells within. But what purpose does his work serve if he doesn’t care? Why would he do such dangerous things for the sake of innocents if he didn’t _care?_

And even then, has the hopelessness of his work ever stopped him before? He has spent years beating against an unmoving wall of stone that the smallfolk might see another day beneath Thordan’s mighty boot. The point was not to kill Thordan, the point was to live long enough to let others live. But if they could somehow cut Thordan down, if they could remove the cancerous tumor altogether…

Aymeric turns and meanders further into his home without waiting for a response, seemingly satisfied with whatever answer he found in Estinien’s expression and the silence that accompanied it. Estinien opens his mouth but no words come out. None of his thoughts want to become anything resembling coherent. He looks back from whence he came, forward to where Aymeric walks, and back again. Weighing his options. To go, or to stay, and whatever each entails. Should he leave certainly not much would change, but such a surrender would weigh heavily upon his conscience for the rest of his days, taunting him with the dream of a world without Thordan, without the _need_ to fight at all. But running from this would mean safety. Running from this would mean he could continue to protect the people without staring directly into the face of death to do so.

_But you look into it anyway, don’t you?_

He swats the thought away as his temper threatens to get the better of him. Staying here would, perhaps more urgently, mean working further alongside Aymeric: a _vampire_ _,_ the son of his sworn enemy, sharing half the blood of everything Estinien stands against.

Not to mention the man’s insistence on being the most infuriating creature alive.

“Really? You remain unconvinced? How difficult is it for you to understand the stakes here? You come with me and we have a chance to stop Thordan. You leave this place and Thordan torments your people until you die and can no longer protect them.” Aymeric stops his saunter for a brief moment, casting a glance over his shoulder but not deigning to turn and face him completely. “Perhaps I was wrong about you. Perhaps the strength and capability I saw in you were merely a ruse.”

Estinien’s temper flares, though he sees the ego check for what it is. He grits his teeth and remains silent.

“I suppose the smallfolk would be better off served by you after all, while I find someone with the _courage_ and _competence_ to tackle this problem at its source.”

With two spat words, Estinien’s restraint dissolves into a hot rage. He lunges forward in a flash towards Aymeric’s back, lance poised to strike, but he isn’t quick enough. Aymeric dodges to the side and Estinien’s thrust flies past his flank, barely catching on the edge of his cloak. Aymeric takes advantage of the opening and grabs both of Estinien’s hands where they clench around the grip of his lance, pulling him close, rendering him vulnerable.

Estinien grits his teeth as Aymeric flashes fangs, a low hiss seeping from his lungs to tickle where his breath caresses skin. He tries to let go of the lance and get away but the hold on his hands is icy, unrelenting. His struggle is for naught as Aymeric pulls him closer, further off balance, deeper into danger.

Hands trapped, he resorts to his feet; despite being wildly off-balance he manages to bring one leg up and into Aymeric’s gut — but it’s like kicking a mountain, stony and unrelenting. The last thing he sees is Aymeric’s bemused face as one eyebrow quirks up, before he shoves Estinien to the ground and knocks the lance away from the both of them.

Estinien moves to get back on his feet but Aymeric’s speed is uncanny; within seconds, an immovable weight looms above his prone form, fangs bared, eyes burning. Fingers itch for the knife concealed by his side but he sees an opening, and takes it. Before Aymeric’s hands can hold him further immobilized, Estinien rams his head upwards to slam into his nose, sending him reeling backwards more in surprise than pain.

It affords him some leeway; Estinien takes advantage of his mobility to make a mad dash towards his lance. He picks it up and whirls to face Aymeric again, but his foe is nowhere to be seen. Not even the sconces flicker with his movement, an eerie quiet disrupting their fight.

“What? Scared? I hunt your kind for a _living,_ you know,” Estinien tries, readying himself for whatever assault is to come.

“You merely hunt the _rabble_ of my kind. You hunt the _leftovers,_ the imperfections he can still put to some use.” The low growl seems to come from everywhere at once, surrounding Estinien on all sides with overwhelming volume. He closes his eyes, lets out a breath, focuses on the senses yet left to him. “Let this be the true test! Can you stand against me? Do you have what it takes?”

 _There._ A bit of focus and he finds the true source of the voice where it emanates loudest, just over his left shoulder. In an instant he whirls and stabs the tip of his lance into the sound’s origin, cutting into the air until Aymeric’s form flickers into being around it, a slow wave of dark red aether.

A hissing snarl escapes from between Aymeric’s bared fangs as blood seeps slowly from the wound, staining his cloak with a dark crimson. The fact that Estinien actually landed a blow and managed to draw blood seems to catch Aymeric by surprise and he resists the urge to cheer his triumph in the second that seems to drag on for centuries between them.

After a moment, anger flashes to turn the bright blue in Aymeric’s eyes to a violent dark. In one smooth motion, he draws a massive blue blade from beneath his cloak, bringing it up in a cruel arc to knock Estinien’s lance aside and out of the wound. Through the torn fabric Estinien watches in real time as the wound closes itself, fading only to a faint red line, as if he had merely scratched him with a fingernail.

“Lucky.”

Estinien revels in the space between them, eyeing the blood still darkening the tip of his lance. “Was it luck?”

Aymeric swings his sword into a ready position, fast enough that Estinien can hear the air through which it cuts. “We shall see.”

Not needing a further cue, Estinien lunges forward with the tip of his lance aimed at Aymeric’s heart. It’s next to nothing for Aymeric to check the blow aside with his own blade, wielded in only one hand with the other behind his back. For each strike Estinien attempts Aymeric’s sword glances it off its mark. They dance their cruel dance and Estinien’s strength begins to flag, ever slightly, at the effort it takes to merely keep pace with the vampire.

They keep at an even pace, blow traded for blow, matching each other’s strength in a way Estinien hasn’t encountered in ages. Fights against Thordan’s lackeys aren’t simple, per se, but they’re not so much of a threat and don’t pose much of a challenge after so many years of fighting them. This is a test of strength and as far as he can tell, Aymeric hasn’t so much as broken a sweat since Estinien’s lance pierced his shoulder.

In some inhuman instant, Aymeric’s form seems to blur with red as he closes the distance between them, once again moving uncomfortably close to Estinien to crowd his space. It’s tactical, of course — Estinien’s job is made all the harder when he can’t get the distance to use his longer-ranged weapon — but the proximity lights a crackling fire beneath Estinien’s skin, the thrill of a hunt mixed with something _else_ entirely.

 _“Do you yield?”_ Aymeric says but his voice carries some otherworldly cadence to it, a darker tone beneath an already smoky voice that echoes in his mind, an endless taunt.

“Never.” Estinien’s answer comes as a breathy growl. An idea strikes him then and he jumps, leveraging both feet on Aymeric’s torso. Luck prevails and his body is as unmoving as it had been before, allowing him to push off and leap back several yalms down the hall and to safety.

He lands on his feet and grunts with the impact, looking up to see Aymeric standing stunned where he had left him. Estinien takes the opening for what it’s worth and jumps forward, closing the distance between them yet again but this time with the upper hand.

Aymeric jumps away just in time to avoid the tip of his lance but Estinien’s body still barrels forward with the excess momentum. He rams into the vampire shoulder-first and gets tossed aside like a ragdoll for his efforts, sending his lance clattering down the hall and out of his reach. He mutters a curse under his breath as he struggles back to his feet, scrambling for his weapon.

He’s not fast enough.

A swift, staggering kick to Estinien’s back sends him reeling forward, off-balance, onto his hands and knees. He can feel the bruises start to form where he impacts noisily with the stone floor. White hair cascades down either shoulder, obscuring his face, tickling his lips and nose as he heaves breaths. One of Aymeric’s fists tangles in it at the back of his head, grip firm and unforgiving, before it tugs Estinien upright and back. His spine bends backwards, arcing like a longbow, leaving him thoroughly exposed to whatever cruel fate awaits him.

“You would kill me before even knowing my name?” Estinien breathes through aggravated lungs, weary yet accepting. His last strength — a flagging wit — brought to bear against the first monster to truly land him on his knees.

“You have yet to offer a name.” Aymeric’s voice looms so low it may well be a whisper, a purr bearing too much softness for a vampire about to rip the throat out of their next victim. He looms over Estinien, uncomfortably close as is his wont, and the fresh fear of helplessness and of failure leaves an acrid taste in Estinien’s mouth. But…

Their fight isn’t over.

“Estinien Wyrmblood.”

One of Estinien’s hands comes up with the intent to punch, aimed squarely at a perfectly cut jawline, but Aymeric catches it out of the air by his wrist and twists it back. He scoffs, fangs glinting in the low light from the sconces, menacing and sharp. The grip on his wrist tightens and the skin revealed by fingerless gloves is cold where it meets Estinien’s bared flesh between his glove and his armor. Aymeric looms even closer, licking his lips, eyes gleaming with a retort he’s preparing to quip.

It’s just enough.

The words die on his lips. Aymeric grunts, wincing, eyes swimming with confusion as the tip of a small knife pierces his torso. Tucked away in Estinien’s belt for emergencies, though he rarely if ever needed it. Fitting that it would find its use here, in perhaps his most dire emergency.

Blood drips down the blade and hilt, staining Estinien’s gloves with red. A twisted, deep-seated part of him wishes he hadn’t been wearing them that he might feel the warmth, the reward of a fight well-fought.

They pause in their deadlock, heaving breaths in tandem. Estinien refuses to look away from Aymeric’s eyes and Aymeric graces him with the same unflinching stare.

The blue of his eyes shimmers and the corners of his lips lift in a slow grin. He backs up and the tip of the blade slides out of his torso, the wound sewing itself closed with a small cloud of red aether.

“A stalemate, then,” he says, letting go of Estinien’s hair. Without the support he crumples to the ground and a cacophonous clatter of armor echoes through the hall. He stares up at Aymeric from where he lies on his back with a grimace, a furrowed brow. “Perhaps you are fit to fight my father after all.”

“You seem wont to operate under the assumption that I’m willing to work with you. Which I’m not.”

Aymeric shrugs, bending over to pick up his sword and return it to its sheath. He kicks Estinien’s lance over to his resting place from which he has yet to rise. Having the fight ripped out from under him so quickly, only to have it end in a draw, has Estinien reeling.

“Are you not? Did that pageantry not convince you that we may stand a chance against my father?” Aymeric extends a hand to Estinien. “It certainly convinced me.”

A moment passes, which turns into two. Estinien looks to the gloved hand, to the _man_ behind it. The _vampire._

He takes the hand.


	3. labyrinth

“Have you heard the old legend, Estinien?”

Stone clicks quietly beneath two sets of boots as they meander past The Arkhitekton along The Paths of Creation, the quickest way to Idyllshire from their starting place in the ruins north of Tailfeather. The surrounding greenery is a welcome diversion from the usual blinding white of snowy Coerthas, dulled by the overcast skies but no less beautiful as it mingles with blue cobblestone and abandoned white architecture. The urge to comb through the ruins for any leftover supplies strikes Estinien more than once, but his travelling companion maintains that everything they will need can be found in Idyllshire.

Though he wishes Aymeric would leave the chattiness behind.

Estinien sighs and keeps his eyes forward, pinned to the treeline and the ruins as they search for potential threats. “That’s needlessly vague, _Aymeric_. I have heard many legends.” Aymeric makes a noise that almost sounds disappointed. “Be more specific.”

Aymeric folds his arms behind his back as he speaks, a new sort of pomp in his step. Estinien loathes it. “I speak of perhaps the oldest of them: the one that tells of our world’s salvation.”

Estinien rolls his eyes, somehow already exhausted. “There are quite a few of those, you will need to be _yet more_ specific.”

“There is darkness and corruption in the land, seeped into the soil beneath our feet.” Estinien opens his mouth to point out the _cobblestone_ path they tread, but Aymeric continues, “This tale tells of how to dispel that darkness that new life may grow once more.”

“Okay.” There is an expectant silence, punctuated by the rush of falling water as a stream empties from the Makers’ Quarter to the land below. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

“It’s important!” Aymeric’s voice pitches slightly higher with his frustration.

“It is perhaps more important that we get to our destination without incident. We will need supplies and an actual plan if we are to make the journey to Ishgard alive and prepared for a fight.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Aymeric continues, _“Well,_ this prophecy posits that _three_ individuals are required to rid the world of its darkness and restore the light.”

“Fascinating.” Aymeric makes a noise of annoyance at his sarcasm. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”

“This specific legend I remember quite well. It tells of my father’s demise, and the loss of my family’s power in this land.” That particular admission takes Estinien aback. _An Ishgard, a Coerthas, a Dravania — an entire world without Thordan._ He hums once in response, neither dismissive nor overly interested, and Aymeric elaborates. “Simply put: Thordan is the darkness, and the light is the world restored to its former peace.”

“I see.” They start up the path leading to the Collectors’ Quarter. Careful eyes scan the ruins on either side of the path. “That doesn’t tell us _how_ to do this.”

“It says we need three individuals,” Aymeric says, nonchalant.

“You’ve said as much already. It’s hardly substantial.” The few goblins milling about Bigwest Shortstop carefully avoid eye contact as they pass. And rightfully so: who would want to pick a fight with the two well-equipped Elezen strangers passing through the middle of nowhere? Fearful, nervous whispers reach their ears but they couldn’t possibly be bothered to stop. “I can only assume there is more to this. Must I ask or are you inclined to tell me what the prophecy says about those three?”

“Oh, but what fun is it if you don’t ask?” The smirk he hears in Aymeric’s voice only serves to stoke his already poor temper.

Estinien’s voice raises to accentuate the dramatics, startling most of the goblins still wary of their presence. “Who, pray tell, are these three _legendary heroes_ who might save this _accursed world_ from its certain demise?”

Aymeric pins Estinien with a flat look. “Funny.” He stands up straighter, continues down the path with purpose. “According to the legend, a vampire, a hunter, and a scholar band together to defeat the evil that plagues the land, and usher forth a new dawn.”

“Well. I know a vampire, and I know a hunter. I do not know a scholar.” He squints, scowls — a well-worn expression. It does little to help them understand _how_ to defeat Thordan, but such a feat as this is perhaps best tackled one step at a time. A scholar, then. Though Estinien would vastly prefer the lower risk and autonomy of working alone… “And I suppose considering the nature of prophecies that harp about something so dire as saving the world, we will need one if we are to finish this.”

“Now you’re getting the hang of it. Congratulations.” Aymeric’s smile shows a glint of fang, a sight that has Estinien instinctively on edge. “You’re one step closer to learning how to have fun.”

“I know how to have fun,” he grumbles.

“Oh? Then please enlighten me if you would be so kind — what is _fun_ for a vampire hunter with the world’s most cantankerous temper?”

“Not _riddles.”_

Keen ears catch a distant yell, a cry for help, and they both freeze and listen. Their banter is immediately abandoned in favor of instinctual vigilance, careful ears and searching eyes. Another shout makes its way through the ruins, frantic, and Estinien and Aymeric respond in tandem with hands on the hilts of their weapons.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret, _vampire,”_ Estinien warns, brows furrowed. He starts in the direction of the voice, lance drawn, eyes scanning for the source of the noise.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Estinien doesn’t dignify him with a response, quickening his jog into a run when the yelling turns into a grunt, an impact. Closer now, they hear beastial sounds from malintented monsters, the impacts of something unforgiving against something that will bruise, the familiar cacophany of a struggle.

He is the first to skirt around the ruins and see the commotion. A swarm of massive malformed demons has convened on a small figure, assaulting them without mercy. Claws and fangs seek purchase upon a poorly-armored body as it tries to defend itself, scraping and scarring where they manage to find their mark. A discarded tome lay amidst the grasses, out of reach of the figure as they struggle, alongside two other demon corpses. The figure tries to break from the pack and fetch the weapon, but the few demons who still live are relentless.

Estinien moves to help, lance at the ready, but before he can leap into action, a flash of blue flies past his head and towards the scuffle. In an instant, Aymeric’s sword tears through one of the demons closest to the figure, reducing it to a black cloud which quickly dissipates.

 _“Shit!”_ they scream, looking frantically in the direction from which the sword flew, following its path as it returns to its owner’s sheath. In a fleeting moment, Estinien can see panic drawn into the lines of a vaguely feminine face, perhaps in reaction to a sword flying mere ilms away from her to land such a deadly blow against a demon rather than towards the demons themselves. It doesn’t last long, though, and she doesn’t have the luxury to pay the two of them any mind. The other demons hounding her are distracted long enough for her to retrieve the tome, and after a precious few seconds spent scrambling for the right page, a dark red sphere of aether proceeds to extract the life force from the nearest demon.

Another approaches from behind and she turns, and before either of them can move to offer any additional help a swift blast from her tome destroys the last assailant. Her chest heaves with breath in the aftermath, shock white hair mussed out of place. Her clothes are torn and their faint blue color is stained in places, both red from blood and black from grime. Two light Raen horns shaped vaguely like wings stick out from her hair to frame the sides of her head, the same sandy shade as the scales across her face and neck.

A breath passes. Two.

“What in Halone’s name were you _thinking—_ You could have killed me!” she yells as she storms towards them. Estinien relaxes his stance now that the main threat is dissipated, watching her approach.

“You yet live,” Aymeric comments as he crosses his arms over his chest, hip cocked slightly, the same bemused pose he had adopted upon first meeting Estinien. “Though I’m certain you would have done so regardless of my intervention. I just thought it polite to assist where I saw that I could.”

Closer now, they can see the details of her. White freckles dot her cheeks like stars, standing stark against her warm skin. One long red gash draws a sticky path across her arm, punctuated by smaller cuts and bits of dirt and ichor staining her clothes. The white of her limbal rings nearly glows as she looks them over with exacting attention to detail. Her book is closed now, tucked away in its holster, but Estinien keeps his lance close regardless. 

“You could have done so without scaring the life out of me,” she says. Her gaze lingers uncomfortably on Aymeric, narrowed, calculating. _Can she sense what he is?_ Though beneath that hesitance there is a fight, a spark that Estinien recognizes all too well.

The spark of something dangerously close to a death wish.

Aymeric meets her eyes with cool impassivity, the hint of a threat on the outskirts of his carefully concealed smirk, the barest upturn of his lips. He hasn’t taken his levin blue eyes off her, though his hand is pointedly away from the hilt of his sword. Instead he bows low, hand sweeping before him. “My humblest apologies.”

_Fury._

“Well. If that is all,” Estinien cuts the strange tension emerging between them, “we had best be off. Potions to buy, monsters to kill— you understand.” She perks up, fleeting anxiety and defensiveness morphing into keen interest. He turns and walks back towards the path, ignoring her. Aymeric, by some miracle, turns on his heel and follows Estinien’s lead without a word.

“You hunt monsters?” she asks, far too interested for her own good. Her boots click against the cobblestones as she hurries to catch up with their long strides. Estinien regrets opening his godsdamned mouth at all.

“Ideally,” Estinien replies, dry as dust.

“My name is Adia, I am a healer, a-a scholar—”

“Do you hand your name out to any well-armed stranger that crosses your path? Or are we just that special?” he retorts, refusing to slow his pace. His attention piques at the word _scholar,_ surely a coincidence, but she did seem somewhat capable in battle. Could she have handled the demons on her own? Could she fight more?

_Could she be…_

He hears a soft exhalation from Aymeric, clearly amused by Estinien’s futile attempts to disengage the conversation. The vampire seems unwilling to otherwise assist. _Bastard._

“Well, there is a prophecy—”

Estinien rolls his eyes, continues down the path. “I have had damn near enough of _prophecies—”_

“A vampire, a hunter, and—”

 _“I know.”_ His tone leaves no room for argument. He stops and turns back towards Adia, leveling her with a withering stare. She skids to a frightened halt in response. “A vampire, a hunter, and a scholar. Three to save the world from Thordan and his ilk. Quite noble. Quite fucking _impossible._ Do you know what you propose? Do you know to whom you speak?”

She shrinks, ever slightly, but the fire is still there. _That damn spark._ “I do, actually. You’re Estinien Wyrmblood. A man who has made his living saving innocents from a ruling power that would sooner see them trampled underfoot than safe and prosperous.” Estinien narrows his eyes, wary as she continues.

“It seems you do not know to whom _you_ speak. Thordan’s _ilk_ destroyed my home. Planted an unshakeable fear into the very core of society. I refuse to sit idle and let him have his way with innocents. Not when there is something I can do to help — even the smallest chance to rid the world of the corruption that plagues it.” She has a point, Estinien knows, and his temper tightens to a dense coil at the realization. “And do not tell me you do not feel the same. You wouldn’t travel with _him_ if you didn’t.”

She motions to Aymeric, who has been watching their exchange silently with his arms crossed over his chest. Studying. Measuring her worth, no doubt, but it’s impossible to tell what he might be considering.

Or if he has reached the conclusion that Estinien has been pointedly avoiding.

“It seems you’ve done your research. A shame knowledge alone cannot be wielded in battle.” Aymeric says evenly, measured. His tone is not harsh, but it carries an authority reminiscent of their earlier dispute, an almost otherworldly cadence buried deep between his calm words, barely detectable.

“I am a healer, and I’ve fought demons and vampires all my life. I have studied these creatures and vampires for years now. How else could I have survived so long on my own?” Estinien regards Adia once again, searching for the tell-tale signs of a fighter and finding traces of it between the lines of a hard stare and stony determination. “If this prophecy has any merit whatsoever… If there is even a slim chance I can help bring Thordan’s reign to an end and revive these countries and people that suffocate beneath him, then I see no other option.”

Aymeric and Estinien share a look. Estinien isn’t sure he likes whatever he sees in Aymeric’s bright eyes, though there’s not much other than a curt dismissal that would currently please him. Estinien never pegged himself for a particularly superstitious person, and every nerve in his body is telling him _no she will not I will not allow this,_ but…

Aymeric smiles, faintly, and shrugs. “That does not sound like a mind we can change.”

_Seven hells._

“Because it's not,” Adia retorts, standing up straighter with a grin that puts Estinien on edge. “If you two are incapable of helping me, I can find another hunter and another vampire who are willing to tackle this problem at its source.”

Estinien scowls at the echoed sentiment. His best withering look does nothing to dull the life in her eyes. He turns it instead to Aymeric, who meets it unflinching, blue eyes bright with something like hope, damn near sparkling.

_Seven blackened, bleeding hells._

“Just… Don’t slow us down.”

Adia’s resolute defiance melts almost instantly into a blinding smile at Estinien’s grumbling voice. He has little and less patience for it; instead of letting a pink flush creep up his neck to his ears, he resumes his brisk pace towards the hill leading to Idyllshire. Two sets of footsteps trail behind him, the footsteps of two (perhaps temporary) allies — and for the first time in an unfathomably long time, Estinien feels the crushing weight of solitude… _lift._


	4. monument

“Ishgard is perched upon a spire surrounded on all sides by an endless chasm. As you likely know, one bridge spans this pass—  _ but _ it lies on the other side relative to Dravania and the Coerthan lands. And while we may have the time to make the journey all the way around to cross that bridge, Thordan’s guard would simply turn us away at the gates or kill us outright once we arrived. It would be better to start the fight once we are  _ within _ the walls rather than on the city’s doorstep.”

Estinien masks his sigh behind Adia’s ceaseless rambling.

The air is brisk as they continue forth to Idyllshire, clouds still obscuring any sunlight that would otherwise warm them. After their reluctant concession to accept Adia’s hand in this, she did not hesitate to dive into the rigorous planning that accompanies overthrowing a seat of power and the vampire who sits upon it.

“Flight is an option, yes, but not one with much merit. The city walls are still lined with ballistas from the days  _ dragons  _ roamed the skies to harry Ishgard’s people; they would shoot us out of the sky to fall to our deaths in the abyss without a second thought. We could try to aim low and climb up to the city…but the Heavens’ Ward will no doubt see us approach and cut us off before we can cross.”

Estinien looks to her as her line of thought trails off into a pensive silence. He thinks for a moment to ask about this Heaven’s Ward, to question any of the information she so readily pulls from the air, but he gets the feeling that somehow derailing this train of thought would do more harm than good. Her eyes and their striking white limbal rings remain pinned to her feet as she walks. Aymeric merely continues alongside the two of them, listening quietly as he scans their surroundings with a careful eye.

“—oh! But if you can provide a distraction, or take out the ballistas somehow, or perhaps—”

It takes Estinien a moment to realize her words are directed to him. His temper spikes as he interrupts, “I do not take kindly to being given orders. Especially not—” He bites the rest of the sentence in two, unwilling to let his frustrated words see the light. She’s right, of course, and merely trying to help them along. It’s the aspect of cooperation he finds himself least prepared to handle — being  _ told _ what to do and what is best for him, as if he does not know for himself — and his desire to turn on his heel and walk away from this grows by the second. Instead he huffs a sigh and abandons the thought. “Regardless. If we are to think of a plan and act upon it, it will be agreed upon by  _ all _ parties. Not just one scholar who thinks she knows it all.”

“You say that as if you had a plan before I joined you!” she says, keeping her voice low though her own frustration is apparent. “So please, do enlighten me if that is the case. Because we will have no chance at killing Thordan and his lackeys until we have an idea of what to do to get there, and what to do once we get there. We will break ourselves upon the walls of Ishgard if we cannot think of a way over or beneath them.” 

She’s right. Again. And it prods at all the open wounds left by plans he had crafted in his own head, abandoned because they all ended in death or failure. Or both, gruesomely.

Adia takes his silence as stubborn rather than concessional and continues. “Or were you just planning to run in headlong and hope for the best?”

Aymeric’s slight smile could not be more bemused. He turns it to Estinien. “She has a point.”

“You will die if you just run in,” she emphasizes. “They will tear you to pieces without a second thought —  _ vampire hunter _ or no.”

Estinien’s frown deepens as he considers her words, her tone, the quiet desperation each time she stresses the danger. “You say that as if from experience.”

Adia pauses, seemingly speechless. Her frustration mounts and she loses the ability to maintain eye contact with either of them. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we need a plan if we are to finish this.” She regains her resolve, looking to her Elezen companions once more. “The prophecy can say all it wants about what we will do but it ultimately falls upon  _ us _ to fulfill it.”

At that, Estinien grits his teeth against whatever emotions try to breach the surface of his expression. He doesn’t dare look to Aymeric. “Fine,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, “What do you know of the Heavens’ Ward, then?”

Adia pauses, deflates slightly. “There are… fewer than fifteen, more than eight of them. They are all vampires. By nature of this they are also elusive, and the details I have are rumors at best. And rumors will not help us.” She looks to Aymeric, who has thus far kept most commentary to himself. “But Aymeric, you… You know more about your father and his men than we ever could on our own. What say you?”

Something shifts in his carefully guarded expression. Distinct displeasure at whatever long-buried memories they have begun to excavate. “Right, then. The Heaven’s Ward.  _ Twelve _ of my father’s personal guard, ranked higher than most military officials. All of them loyal to my father, perhaps to a fault— and all of them vampires of significant strength. Whether by charm, or by greed, or by some notion of genuine adoration for his leadership… They live for him and will die for him at his whim, and will stop at nothing to ensure his supremacy in Ishgard.”

“Do you know much else of them as individuals?” It’s an innocent enough question, but Aymeric can’t quite hide his flinch as memories resurface. “I don’t know how much time you spent  _ with _ Thordan before turning against him.” Adia’s words are not said with malice but instead a pointed curiosity— she knows the line she treads is thin, and walks it regardless. Carefully.

Aymeric fidgets in clear discomfort at her question, but after a few silent moments filled with naught but the crunch of footsteps upon stone and earth, he answers it regardless. “Not much, I am afraid. ‘Tis true I did not always oppose my father. I was once a part of the Heavens’ Ward, or near enough that it made no difference. But I did not swear my life to my father, nor was I bound to him in the same fashion as they were.”

A few moments span between them before Estinien begins to understand his discomfort. “You were one of them.” It is not stated like a question but his tone demands an answer regardless.

Aymeric stops walking, and the other two slow to a halt as he does. His facade cracks, and with it his careful concealment falls away, leaving him bare to their scrutiny. “Almost.” A pause, as he considers how much to divulge of his past and its consequences. “But that’s not important—”

“But it is,” Estinien interrupts. “It’s incredibly important. How do we know you’re not just— out for revenge? How do we know you won’t take advantage of the power vacuum and steal your father’s position for yourself?” They are valid questions all, and should have been asked long before Estinien agreed to such a daunting task, but… They are little more than hot air, truly. Estinien knows the answers— though he knows not  _ how. _ A feeling, he wants to say, and while feelings have both stayed and driven his hand in the past, it has never been so pointed before.

This, however, is a feeling he holds clenched between gritted teeth, lest it choke him.

Aymeric’s answer emerges slow, deliberate, each word striking its target with shocking accuracy. “Because I am working —  _ willingly _ — with a vampire  _ hunter, _ and a  _ scholar. _ My last hope — nay, my  _ life, _ left in the hands of the two who would have the best chance of destroying me should they deem it necessary.”

He looks to Adia, then, and is surprised to find her face swimming with a confluence of emotions not unlike Aymeric’s. Not unlike Estinien’s, either. The immense amount of faith and trust it takes to take on such a task with two complete strangers is not lost on any of them.

“What changed?” Adia asks. A silence settles over them as Aymeric’s face continues to shift, mask finally shed now that they have prodded and pried it off. “Why did you leave?”

“That is a story for another time.” His tone allows no argument, and they do not try. “Right now our focus must be singular: ending my father’s reign.”

Adia and Estinien share a look. “Fine.”

They resume their walk up the winding path to Idyllshire. Aymeric dons the hood of his cloak and Adia walks taller, with purpose. A few people linger outside the gates, chatting idly, but they turn and stare at the newcomers. Not unexpected, but still potentially detrimental to their mission. Should the wrong ears hear of the son of Thordan taking up arms with a vampire hunter and a scholar, their plan could be ruined before they even reach the gates. 

The bustle of the small town is far greater within the walls than without. Goblins selling their wares mingle with locals, grouped together outside Rowena’s. The architecture stands mostly intact after all these war-torn years, bright stone accented with emerald and gold which towers over the Dravanian Hinterlands from its high perch. The aetheryte crystal spins slowly in the midst of town, with all manner of smallfolk and adventurers gathered around it. All told, it’s more civilization than Estinien has seen in several months, if not years. The idle chatter and bustle of the townsfolk create a pleasant atmosphere but it comes as no comfort to him, considering his present company and what dangers they present by merely existing where others can see and hear them.

Adia heads directly towards one of the merchants and is quick to cheerfully chat with them about various materials and wares, inquiring about recent trade and whatever passes for gossip in the age of vampires. Estinien and Aymeric share a look, and the latter shrugs before wandering down the path next to Rowena’s, leaving Estinien in front of the main gate alone.

He sighs and sets off to find someone who will sell him some ale.

* * *

They reconvene about an hour later, laden with supplies and freshly repaired armor and whatever else they deemed necessary to their cause. Estinien finds his companions sequestered near The Snail, murmuring to each other away from prying ears beneath the cover of rushing fountain water. They overlook the mountain range which sprawls beneath the town, no less beautiful for the dreary weather that so threatens to soak them.

“In truth, I know not for certain,” Aymeric says. Estinien slows his approach and tries to listen past the rush of water. “Their movements have always been cryptic, and purposefully so. We have no way of knowing how many of them remain in the city to protect my father except walking in and counting them ourselves.”

“Could any of them be turned  _ against  _ Thordan?” Adia asks, seemingly still mulling through her mental list of potential plans.

Aymeric pauses at that. He turns to admire the scenery, gathering his thoughts, before he finally speaks. “I don’t believe so.” She deflates, and his voice softens as he continues. “‘Tis better we err on the side of caution and assume none of them possesses a gentle heart, lest we find the cutthroat of them instead and find our plan foiled by subterfuge.”

Adia pauses a moment to absorb his answer. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but seems to change her mind and promptly shuts it. She shifts on her feet and her shoes click against the blue cobblestone. Then, finally, the air leaves her lungs in a quiet sigh. “Okay. I trust you.”

His smile is soft when he turns it to her. “It warms my heart to hear that.”

Estinien wonders for a brief moment if he could say the same. His instinct is, of course, a vehement denial, but he simultaneously finds it impossible to believe that he could embark on such an endeavor without first trusting those with whom he has committed to work. But, even above that, did the trust come before the agreement, or after?

Estinien does not let himself mull.

“Right, then, here you are,” he says as he resumes his approach across the small cobblestone area. They turn to him unalarmed—  _ welcoming, _ even. Aymeric’s smile is pleasant and seemingly sincere, though Estinien can’t know for sure if his mask has been equipped once more or if it is a genuine expression. Adia, on the other hand, smiles and raises her hand in a little wave, holding a whetstone in the other. “Let’s be off. I’d prefer not to linger here any longer than we absolutely must.”

Aymeric nods. “Agreed. I say we make our way towards Coerthas. Adia will apprise you of the details she has uncovered from the locals here as we do so, and we can begin to formulate a more concrete plan.”

As he mentions her, she holds the whetstone towards Estinien, who takes it with a raised eyebrow. “This was more than a mere supply run. We could have gotten…” She pauses, considering her thoughts as they form. “Well, a  _ few _ of the items could probably have been procured elsewhere… But some specialty herbs and other magical items could only have been purchased here lest we take the time to gather or enchant them ourselves. And even still, the locals here know much and more regarding vampires and how to kill them effectively —  _ and _ the demonic monsters they leave in their wake.”

Aymeric stiffens. Estinien thinks it related to her knowledge regarding killing vampires — until he sees his unnaturally bright blue eyes fixate on something over Estinien’s shoulder. Adia shifts in place as well, a hand on the tome at her hip, her prior welcoming smile shed in favor of apprehension, of immediate distrust.

_ “Leave,” _ Aymeric nearly snarls.

“Easy! I’ve just come to talk!” The voice sounds from behind him, mockingly sing-song as they approach.

Adia looks to Aymeric and a confluence of thoughts crease her brows together, but Aymeric keeps his gaze trained on their unwanted guest.

“I have  _ nothing _ to say to you,” Aymeric spits, a fury upon his face like nothing Estinien has seen before.

Estinien turns to see a man in blue and white robes, approaching the three of them in no real hurry. Long brown hair is pulled back to show bright eyes and a scar across his cheek. It’s not a man Estinien recognizes, but the garb is familiar enough. One of the Heavens’ Ward, presumably, but even above that, a vampire. The man’s grin contorts his face in a way that has Estinien reaching for his weapon with the others. Sharp teeth glint in the small bit of remaining overcast light as he comes closer. Adia takes a hesitant step back in his periphery, towards the edge of the platform, but Aymeric holds his ground.

“Oh, but you  _ must _ introduce me to your new companions. Fellow traitors, I presume? Or some dim-witted mercenaries who were willing to take your coin? Do they know you would sooner  _ eat  _ them than work with them towards a common goal?”

_ “Leave, _ Charibert.” The unnatural cadence returns to Aymeric’s voice yet again. His voice threatens to waver in the throes of his rage but he holds firm in the face of it. “I will not ask again.”

“I will leave. But I will not leave empty-handed.” He brandishes a staff and lowers into a battle stance. “Your father summons you home, Ser Aymeric! To be tried before the Holy See! If you do as you are bid, perhaps I won’t burn your husk to cinders before we get there.”

Aymeric steps forward but Estinien reaches out with an arm to stop him on impulse, his eyes still trained on Charibert. Aymeric looks to him with an unspoken worry in his eyes but before he can protest, Charibert takes notice.

“Ah,” he muses, studying Estinien. His lips split into a grin. “Or perhaps I’ll find a different body to burn.”

Estinien hears Adia unsheath her tome, feels the aether coalesce before she casts a shield over the three of them. Golden light shrouds them before it fades, though the effects linger. With that Charibert’s attention shifts and stays trained on her — the smallest and most vulnerable of them. His grin splits even wider.

Everything happens at once.

Charibert begins channeling aether into his staff, eyes locked onto Adia. Seeing this, Estinien dashes forward and readies his lance, hoping to catch Charibert off-guard in such close quarters while his spell charges. In his periphery he sees Aymeric move in front of Adia in a defensive stance, sword drawn from its concealed sheath beneath his cloak.

Estinien reaches him just in time to stab into his shoulder before he releases the spell. Charibert grunts with the impact and it throws his balance; instead of striking its more distant target, the ball of fire imbeds itself in Estinien’s torso.

Charibert reels backwards, clutching the wound left by Estinien’s consecrated lance. Deep red stains the white and blue robes in a slow spread. His eyes, once a color so bright they could be white, now glow a piercing red. A hiss tears from his throat in frustration.

“It was  _ lovely _ to meet your companions, Ser Aymeric,” he spits, venomous and spiteful. “I am certain your father will want to meet them as well.”

Before any of them can respond, Charibert’s form dissolves in a dark mist and disappears.

Estinien drops to a knee, clutching the still-smoking burn in his side. Adia rushes towards him and begins channelling aether into his wound. Her fingertips press gently into the skin and though it smarts, the pain is fleeting as she soothes the angry wound. Luckily her shield had mitigated a significant portion of the spell’s damage, but the fire had still seared through armor and into flesh.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she murmurs with a faint waver in her voice. Her healing energy glows green as it passes her hands, soothing where it seeps into his marred flesh and begins the slow process of stitching him together. She won’t meet his eyes.

He opens his mouth to speak but any movement of his diaphragm or torso sends a fresh, searing pain to his still-open wound. Instead, Estinien keeps his protest to himself.

Aymeric enters his periphery, shoulders tense as he sheaths his sword once more. “We need to leave as soon as possible. Now that the Ward knows of you, your lives are in exponentially more danger than before.” He raises the hood of his cloak and scans their surroundings with a careful eye. No one from the town has ventured this far, and none seem to have heard their scuffle.

“And yours.” Adia’s voice is still quiet but firm in its resolve, and she’s right. Now that a member of the Heavens’ Ward knows their intent to mobilize — knows their strengths and weaknesses and that a vampire, a hunter, and a scholar are working  _ together _ — this is no longer solely Aymeric’s problem. This danger extends to all of them.

Aymeric does not respond. A few silent moments pass before her aether fades, and with it a significant portion of the pain. Estinien’s body still aches but the burning sensation is gone, and though the blast had burnt a hole through his clothing, the flesh visible through it is mostly healed. She looks up to see Estinien still watching her, slightly smiling-- an expression he is quick to change once he is aware of its presence. The pain must still be getting to him.

“Thank you,” he says, and curses his voice for being so godsdamned  _ soft. _

He tries to stand and Adia supports him with a gentle hand on his shoulder, easing him upright slowly. The ache is blunt but manageable as he stands and walks, a grim reminder of the caution they will need to take going forward. He looks down and frowns at the hole in his clothes, at the bits of marred flesh peeking through.

“I can fix that later,” Adia says, hushed. “Idyllshire and its people are at risk as long as we linger here.”

“Reinforcements could appear at any moment and I will not lose these people to my own negligence, not with you two already in such danger,” Aymeric concurs, lending his hand to help Estinien to his feet.

Adia and Estinien both begin to protest, but the harrowed look in the vampire’s eyes stills their tongues. With that they walk briskly towards the gates, heads low and eyes trained on the ground in front of them, minds consumed with the notion of how close they had been to failing— before their journey had even begun.

And a new, chilling understanding of the long and arduous path ahead of them.


	5. war council

They depart Idyllshire in a rush and do not so much as catch a breath until they find themselves sequestered within a massive abandoned structure on the outskirts of the Arkhitekton. Aymeric shoves the doors open, wincing at the clamor and whatever attention it promises to draw. It is not ideal but it will suffice for now, as night begins its descent over Dravania. Estinen’s anxiety renders him restless, eager to take leave of this place before they are hunted once more, but Adia objects.

“As resilient as we may hope we are,” she says once the building’s vacancy is confirmed, “it has been a long day for us all. As much as I’m sure you’d like to limp your way directly to Coerthas, I’d rather not have to heal that burn any more than absolutely necessary.”

She’s right, and apparently perceptive of the weakness he had so painstakingly tried to hide. Alone, perhaps he would have pushed on past the pain and resultant limp, but with more than his own stamina to consider, he relents. Aymeric returns once the perimeter is secured and pulls the doors closed behind him.

“We should be safe to shelter here until the morning,” Aymeric says, sitting by the fire Adia had started in the expensive chamber. “I covered what few tracks we made. How are your wounds?”

 _Seven hells._ “It’s fine. We should make haste for Coerthas.”

“But—” Adia starts.

 _“I know,”_ Estinien cuts her off, ignoring her expression thereafter and how it makes his heart turn. “But the longer we stay in one place, the easier it will be for that bastard to find us when he returns. With reinforcements. We cannot linger here longer than a night.”

Adia only nods at that, avoiding their eyes. “We’ll leave for Coerthas when the sun rises, then. Mayhap by then we will have constructed some semblance of a plan.”

Not much time passes before Aymeric loses his patience in their resultant silence and begins inspecting the rest of the ruin from within, leaving Adia and Estinien to themselves. 

“I’m sorry,” he says once it becomes too much. She looks up, nearly surprised. “It’s…been quite a long day. We can rest as long as you need.”

“As long as _you_ need,” she corrects. Estinien frowns. “I— Well, _we_ need you at your best for what is to come.” She stifles a yawn and Estinien grins.

“Right.” She rubs her eyes and tries to hide the flush of her cheeks. Estinien notices anyway. “And you as well. If it becomes too much, be unafraid to tell us.”

“I don’t need your doting,” she says, and it sounds like it should sting but she lacks the energy for it to land. “And so long as you ask that of me, I will expect the same from you. And with _honesty._ None of this… Martyrdom. Self-sacrificial nonsense. We will do this together or not at all.”

Adia’s eyes settle into something determined as she watches Estinien over the fire. He returns their gaze in silence, studying his companion. Aymeric’s footsteps, despite how lightly they land upon the stone, echo through the massive structure from the floors above. The crackling of embers sounds from much closer, punctuating their silence.

But… Perhaps she has a point. Estinien sighs, resigning himself to a night of rest, and deflates— but winces as his torso smarts with the motion. This does not escape her shrewd perception, of course, and she pulls out her tome and approaches him.

“You see?” she sits in front of him and flips through the pages, and it takes conscious effort for Estinien to not protest when she reaches towards the hem of his tunic.

“Right…” He trails off into silence as she exposes the angry burn and begins a healing spell. The aether settles cool and soothing over his skin, glowing green to contrast the reds and oranges of the fire next to them. A movement catches his periphery and when he looks up, he sees Aymeric on one of the upper floors, leaning against the bannister and watching quietly. From this distance it’s impossible to discern his expression, but whatever it is scatters as he resumes his meandering through the massive chamber.

Eventually his pain abates and she relents. When her magic subsides she backs away from him, Estinien lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. A quiet tension finally easing. Why had he been so tense in the first place? And why had Aymeric been _watching?_

The moment passes. Adia stows her tome and Aymeric’s footsteps approach from the shadows.

“Thank you,” Estinien murmurs. She smiles and nods once, and he tries not to read so deeply into the blush on her cheeks.

“We will leave at sunrise,” Aymeric says once he finds his space beside the campfire opposite the two of them. “Get some rest. I will keep watch.”

Estinien tries not to scowl, and fails. “Right. I want the _vampire_ to keep watch while I sleep.”

“You do,” Adia deadpans, curling up with her pack as a pillow. “And so do I. Please rest. I will check your wound once more before we depart.”

With that, she turns her back to the fire and falls silent. Estinien opens his mouth but the motion overtakes him as it morphs into a yawn, one at which Aymeric merely raises his eyebrows. Eventually he concedes, following suit to lay in some comfortable position around his wound, coat tucked beneath his head, and drifts off to a reluctant sleep.

* * *

  
  


Aymeric wakes them at sunrise, as promised. Estinien blinks to consciousness and wipes the sleep from his eyes to see a familiar blue cloak around the still-sleeping form of their scholar. Aymeric is quick to remedy it, however, nudging her awake and taking the fabric from around her before she even has a chance to sit upright.

Estinien chalks it up to a cold night and attire unfit for sleeping, and promptly squashes the pang of fondness that emerges at the gesture — towards both Adia _and_ Aymeric, he realizes with a horrifying start.

It’s far too early for this.

Once Adia has readied herself for a day of travel, she approaches Estinien and reaches for his tunic with perhaps too much nonchalance, lifting it and examining the wound with a gentle touch and careful eyes.

“It seems to be healing well. Sleep and aether have done their job well.” She looks up at him, then, startlingly close. A small, silent moment passes between them, a shared breath with her fingertips still tracing the outline of the wound. And just as quickly as it began, her touch retreats and she fixes him with a stern look. “Please tell me if it worsens. It should be fine for the time being, but I know not how it will react to the strain of travel.”

Estinien nods and straps his weapon to his back. “Right. We make haste for Coerthas, then?”

Aymeric nods, shoving the massive doors open once more to let dawn’s light spill over them. “The quickest route takes us back through the Forelands.”

“So we came to Idyllshire for nothing but supplies and a fireball through my chest?”

“Not exactly,” Adia says as they depart. “Ordinarily there is no way of traversing around Ishgard without either flight or a gruelling journey through unpathed lands and treacherous mountain ranges. However in Idyllshire I was appraised of a possible way to get to the Central Highlands on foot. It will not be simple, of course, but for us to assume any part of this will be _easy_ is pure folly.”

Estinien grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn’t offer much else.

“And I was able to procure the supplies I require,” Aymeric adds. “Instead of stopping we can make our way directly to Coerthas without delay. The first place the Ward would think to look for us would be my home, so better for them to find it empty than not should they come calling.”

“We can stop when we get safely within Snowcloak,” Adia says, pulling a map from her pack and pointing to a bit of the land. “Several caverns and tunnels through The Warrens will lead us there, and thus on to the rest of Coerthas. So long as they haven’t collapsed. If we make good enough time, we can push onwards to Dragonhead before nightfall, but realistically the most we can hope to manage is finding shelter somewhere in Snowcloak.”

And so they trek towards the Forelands in no small amount of hurry. An overcast sky looms above them and they have ample reason to believe that the weather in Coerthas won’t be much better. Yet still they trudge onwards, keeping careful eyes towards any strangers they pass and any others lurking in the shadows. Aymeric seems confident enough in his ability to sense any assailants before they get close enough to attack, but doesn’t take kindly to Estinien reminding him that Charibert had gotten past his keen perception.

To be fair, of course, Estinien hadn’t realized his presence until it was too late either. And for his folly, he paid the price. The wound remains a dull ache as they travel, not worth mentioning though not entirely unnoticeable. A reminder of the hefty, horrible price of feeling too comfortable.

Most of the trip passes in idle conversation that quiets to silence when they pass other travelers on the road. The overcast skies follow them into the Dravanian Forelands as they pass more ruins, though these are in far greater disrepair than the ones near the Arkhitekton and would not provide much shelter should they decide to halt for the evening.

They trek past the massive Anyx Trine and take the broken path as it weaves back and forth across the Whilom River. Collectively, they decide it’s better to take the long way around Tailfeather instead of putting it and its inhabitants in any unnecessary danger by passing through. Estinien objects but Aymeric makes the point that it would be better for these people to not have seen the three wanted by the Ward should Charibert and his men come calling, and he’s hard-pressed to argue against that notion. It had been bad enough for the tavern patrons to see Aymeric there, and Estinien by association, before the outset of their mission in the first place. So they resign themselves to ducking their heads and walking briskly past the Chocobo Forest camps and the workers taking advantage of the relatively temperate day.

It feels almost too easy for the three of them to journey through Dravania. Despite their caution — or perhaps because of it — they find no resistance, no trouble, not even a demon to harry them or a wyrm to chase them along the lines of its territory. A small spark of optimism lights in Estinien’s chest and though he is wary of it, he welcomes it. Perhaps it won’t be so arduous to save the world after all.

But it all changes when they pass into Coerthas.

They exit the ravine only to be greeted by a blizzard ravaging the lands on the other side. Visibility is nigh impossible and they’re only able to stay on the icy path through the land by muscle memory and Aymeric’s heightened senses. The idea strikes them to turn back and take shelter instead of trying to navigate it, but they know they would not make it back to any safe part of Dravania before long past sundown. So instead they push forward in the hopes that perhaps the storm will ease in time. Adia huddles in on herself and Estinien is not much better off in the bitter frost as it batters their forms.

They seek higher ground on one of the nearby ridges but the blizzard’s gales are inescapable. Visibility does not improve and they lose sight of the path they had tread below, forcing them onwards by sheer instinct.

Estinien gestures frantically in the hopes that Aymeric or Adia will interpret it as _I cannot find our tracks to lead us back and there is no path forward._ Adia tries to gesture something back but no form of communication is intelligible to either of them in this weather. Eventually Aymeric loses his patience — or perhaps he merely understands the urgency of finding shelter from this storm for his two dreadfully mortal companions — and takes both of their wrists in his hands, pulling them onwards.

Aymeric leading the way makes the most sense, considering he is arguably the least affected by the storm around them due to whatever constitution is afforded to him by virtue of being a vampire. His grip shifts down to one of Adia’s hands to keep her at pace with them, and not seconds after he notices that does he feel icy flesh around his own hand, guiding them both onwards to the one thing they can make out through the blizzard: the massive glowing structure, a lighthouse in the stormy sea of snow. The Dreaming Dragon.

Poetic, that a draconic structure — one once thought to be a dragon itself, frozen in slumber — would be their salvation.

“I do hope you know where you’re taking us,” Estinien has to nearly yell over the howling winds. He receives no answer save icy fingers tightening around his own, and the arduous trek forward.

From there Aymeric leads them towards what they hope is the south, that they might take shelter in Falcon’s Nest. Adia’s questioning in Idyllshire yielded the knowledge that it acts as the only inhabited encampment in the entirety of the Western Highlands; all others had been abandoned to vampires or demons or — most ironically — the harsh weather.

Several yalms of stumbling behind Aymeric pass before Estinien spies the spikes of several protective fence posts through the wall of gusting snow. It is not nearly big enough to be Falcon’s Nest, but it is shelter and their relief mounts as they find it. Beyond the fences lay two abandoned barracks vaulted on wheels, lights dimmed, not quite yet swallowed by the snowstorm that rages around it. Aymeric manages to wrest one of the doors open despite its lock, and is quick to usher them both inside before fastening the door shut.

Speechless, they catch their breaths, collapsed on the floor of this cold, forgotten home. It’s a cozy structure, not meant for more than one or two inhabitants but finding itself with three in the midst of a blizzard, after spending Fury knows how long abandoned to time and snow. Wind batters the outside with a constant audible gust. The hearth is cold but, blessedly, bears dry firewood, which Aymeric is quick to wrangle into ignition as his companions recover.

It comes to light after some effort, and Aymeric herds the two of them over to it once it catches into a blaze that might maintain itself without constant attention. He tries to dust the still-crusted ice and snow from their clothes but beneath that layer of ice is yet more ice and sopping fabric.

“Out of these now, come on. Any longer and you’ll freeze in them,” Aymeric says, coaxing them into shedding their soaked outer layers down to their smallclothes. They obey with trembling hands, and little by little they dry and come to a somewhat more comfortable warmth while Aymeric hangs their clothes and his own to dry.

Estinien watches it all happen blankly, willing more of his focus to the arduous task of staying alive. He doesn’t realize until the shaking stops that the three of them are huddled together next to the hearth, far less clothed than before, forced together to maximize warmth between them.

“This prophecy is cursed,” Adia mumbles through clenched teeth once the worst is past them. “First the Ward, now this…”

Aymeric, warmed by the hearthfire and the bodies around him, holds his companions closer. “Would that we could have predicted the severity of such weather, and would that we could predict its eventual passing.”

“Nothing for it but to wait,” Estinien says.

And so the prophesied three resign themselves to their fate. A vampire, a hunter, and a scholar, cowering in an abandoned home, cowed not by the fervor of their enemies but by nature herself.

* * *

  
  


Charibert wastes no time in calling for an audience with the Archbishop upon his return to Ishgard. 

Greaved footsteps echo in the massive chamber as he makes his approach to Thordan atop his throne. He kneels as his presence is announced and rises once Thordan bids him to do so. Other members of the Ward flank the Archbishop — not all, of course, but those who had been in Ishgard and able to make an appearance for this summons.

“What news?” Thordan asks. “I assume your empty-handedness yields way to insight gathered, instead of mere _failure.”_

“News of Ser Aymeric, my lord. Spotted in Idyllshire with a hunter and a scholar.” Quiet murmurs sound from the other members of the Ward, but the Archbishop remains silent as he continues his report. “One can only assume they conspire your downfall, as prophesied. Due to the covert nature of my mission, I had been alone and thus unable to successfully capture them or kill them… However, instilling fear and uncertainty within the enemy is a mighty enough blow in and of itself. And they did not escape unscathed. They will look for me in every shadow, and they will look with _fear.”_

Thordan studies him with narrowed eyes. “Interesting. And the nature of the traitor’s companions?”

Charibert shrugs, carefully smug. “They are not of much note. A simple healer and a _dragoon,_ in this day and age. A woman and a man respectively. Mortals, both. I do not believe they pose much threat to you or your throne.”

“They plot at the side of a vampire of notable lineage who has since turned against me. You would do well not to underestimate your foe.” Charibert’s heart drops at the reprimand, and he opens his mouth to defend himself, but Thordan continues. “Quite interesting that he has taken up with _mortals_ to defeat us. But there are more pressing matters at hand than three vagabonds you harassed in Dravania.”

Thordan pauses, considering, while tension mounts within his faithful servant. “Watch them, for now. Track their movements, but do not waste time or energy on direct confrontation unless you know with certainty you can bring them _all_ to my dungeons. Alive.” Thordan’s lips tick upwards in the faintest hint of a smirk. “Remind my treacherous excuse of a son the dangers of turning against his liege, should an opportunity present itself. Otherwise, we shall bide our time. They will come to us.”

A smirk splits across Charibert’s visage, and he bows towards the Archbishop. “As I live, so too shall I serve.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you think about this too hard it doesn't make any sense just live in the moment and i will pry open your third eye
> 
> we are indeed out here [@shoutzwastaken](http://twitter.com/shoutzwastaken)
> 
> we are even more out here in [the book club](https://discord.gg/X6NJJAb)


End file.
